Jack thought the deacon hadn’t got out yet.
“That never’ll do, never’ll do! Bad example, deacon! Airly bird ketches the worm. I shall have to give him a talking to. Fie, fie, deacon! Where’s Pip, Mr. Pip, Mr. Pipkin, Mr. Philander P. Pipkin, Esquire?” the merry man rattled away. “I’m particular to give all the names I’ve heard him called by, so as to get an answer out of you the fust time.”
“I rather think you’ll find him in the barn,” said Jack.
“You think wrong this time. I know I sha’n’t find him in the barn. Do you know why?” said the merry man, with his upper lip at his nose. “Because I sha’n’t go to the barn and look. Is that a good reason? How long before you’ll be through milking?”
“I don’t know; not very soon, unless somebody comes and helps me.”
“S’pose I help you. I can milk. I’m an old hand at it. Never shall forgit my fust trial, though! Visiting my uncle—Sunday-go-to-meeting clo’es on—he told me to look out; but I was a little smarter ’n anybody else in the world, them days: I could milk! So I took holt—both hands—milked one stream into my vest-pocket and t’ other into my eye, and quit. Thought that would do for a fust lesson.”
“I don’t know why you should help me milk,” said Jack, as Sellick was getting a pail and stool.
“’T will keep me out of mischief, while I’m waiting. Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do. Which cow kicks? I don’t want anything to do with a kicking cow. I used to have one, a fust-class kicker. Hit me once; thought the lightning had struck the haystack! I tried tying her leg. Tied it to an old sleigh under the shed; she kicked that to pieces. Tied it to the sill of the barn; and by George! she started to kick the barn down. Tied it then to an old grin’stone lying in the yard; and at the fust kick she sent it like a pebble from a sling right over the kitchen chimbly, quarter of a mile at least; fell into Welby’s bog; sunk so deep I’ve never thought ’t would pay to fish it out.”
“What did you do with her then?” Jack asked, trying to forget his troubles in listening to this nonsense.
“What could I do but kill her? One pail she kicked over full of milk, we never saw or heard of agin; but Dyer’s folks, live over on the North Road, about a mile off, said they had quite a little shower of milk at their house that morning,—wondered where it come from. I had a pair of boots made out of her hide; but I never could wear ’em. I was always kicking somebody, and gitting hauled up for ’sault ’n’ battery.”